


His Side Empty

by baberainbow



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14449380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baberainbow/pseuds/baberainbow
Summary: The night following the events of Avengers: Infinity War.Denial, mourning, and comfort.





	His Side Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for Infinity War Part One!  
> Wrote this immediately after seeing the film.

Steve can’t move. He kneels before the lifeless body of Vision where Wanda’s ashes settled, and he can’t move.

“Who else?” he asks, his throat dry and his hands curling into fists.

* * *

Natasha comes to his room that night. He doesn’t see her come in, but he knows by her quiet footsteps. And it’s not that he figured anyone else _left_ would be keen on comforting him. Everyone else is mourning privately. Mourns differently.

But, he won’t kid himself. Comfort... that’s not the only reason why she’s in here. He curls in on himself tighter.

“Get lost on your way to your room?” he asks quietly, not trying to give the inflection of a joke.

“Steve,” she says softly as she situates herself over the covers. She touches his shoulder gently. “Will you look at me?”

“I’m not giving it to you,” he says. There’s no beating around the bush. Not now. “I can’t.”

Natasha sighs. “I’m worried about you.”

He stares straight at the wall. “I can’t. It’s all I have left.”

She tuts softly, almost with pity. “Steve, give me the gun.”

Steve wipes his eyes with one hand and clutches Bucky’s rifle closer to his chest. “Don’t take him from me.”

Her gentle touch turns into a tight grip on his shoulder. “I lost too many friends today, Steve. I will not lose another.” She pauses. “Even if taking it from means you hate me, I’d rather you resent me than lose you.”

Steve closes his eyes. “The clip is empty.”

“I don’t believe you. Let me see.” He doesn’t try to stop her as she reaches around and takes the gun from his hand.

He listens to her inspect it, the little clicks of her checking the magazine. He rubs at his eyes again. “It’s what’s left. Of him.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. She doesn’t give him the rifle back either. She places it on the floor by the bed.

“I touched his dust. I touched it, Nat. I saw him go. He called out for me, and he turned to dust. And god, Nat, If I had made it out, if _we_ had made it out...” he starts, but if he says the words clogging his heart and throat, brings his desires to life, then he can never take it back.

Natasha nods. “I know. You loved him.”  

He turns over. Her face is flat, but her eyes are red.

“You called for him in your sleep. I’ve caught you staring at his picture more times than I can count,” she explains. “And you have the worst poker face. And now you’re curled in bed with his rifle, and you don’t think I’d’ve figured it out?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He turns back over onto his side facing away from her. Buck was private. It’s not that they were trying to hide it, but Buck just liked to keep things to himself.

“I visited him before today. He has his own home, Nat. He has a garden. After so long, he was happy. He was happy.” _He showed me his crops. He took me on walks through valleys and the jungle. He would show me constellations in the night sky he had made up as we laid together in a field of grass. He made love to me in his bed. “_ He was happy, and now he’s gone.”

Steve wipes at his eyes. Natasha pets his shoulder. She takes a deep breath before rasping, “I’m in denial, too.”

“I keep thinking Sam’s gonna walk in here and steal my toothpaste like he always does,” he says before he can stop. Because it’s true. Sam, one of his best friends and brother in arms. Who took him out for beers and burgers and challenged him at darts. Who would curse Steve out every time Steve lapped him during a morning run.  Who would complain about Steve’s driving even though he was much worse. Who made fun of his striped pajamas. Who made him feel normal.

“Remember that one time in Dnipro? When he couldn’t read the Cyrillic and thought the body wash was mouthwash? And he spat it out right onto the mirror?” It’s almost like she’s saying a eulogy, and Steve’s heart drops. There won’t be anymore mishaps like that.

She continues, “Remember when Wanda told us about Vision? And Sam’s first reaction was ‘She’s fucking an AI? Can he even get a hard-on?’ but she was still on speaker?”

Steve chuckles hoarsely at that memory. Wanda, the little sister he never had. A spitfire with a big heart. Who would apologize profusely when she accidentally lobbed Steve into a wall during training before bursting into laughter. Who would bring him mint tea and sit with him. Who still remained kind after harsh bondage in the underwater prison.

“She’d grown up so fast,” Steve whispers.

“I miss them.”

“I need them back, Nat. I need them back,” he croaks out. “I couldn’t save him. Or Sam. Or Wanda. Or anyone-” he starts, and then he swallows his breath.

Natasha leans in slowly almost spooning him from behind, and rests her hand gently on his. “Steve, this isn’t on you.”

Steve clutches at the sheets. “I should have been taken too.”

Natasha swipes her thumb over his palm. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Why them? Why not me?”

Natasha doesn’t have an answer for him. She rubs his shoulder and his palm for a couple minutes before she pulls away. She kisses his forehead before crawling off the bed.

“You should sleep. Well, shower first. But you need to sleep.”

“I don’t think I can,” he says.

“For me, then?” she stops in his doorway. “You need to rest. We all do.”

She leaves.

It takes him a minute before he conjures up the will to haul up out of bed and walk to the bathroom.

When he turns on the shower, only then he notices that the layout is the same as the bedroom he’d stayed in on his first night in Wakanda. After Siberia.

It was his first night sleeping in the same bed as Bucky in almost a century. Before and during the War, they never did anything no matter how much they wanted to. But, some freezing nights led to Buck crawling into his tent where they held each other and had an excuse to do so.

But that night, Bucky wordlessly walked into Steve’s room. He had changed into the clothes T’Challa gave them: a simple white tank top and white sweatpants. Steve had been staring out his window when Bucky sidled up behind him. Bucky whispered into his ear about how long it had been since he’d been touched by someone he loved. That he’d been missing Steve so long. That after almost losing each other the day before that he didn’t have fears no more about loving what he wanted to.

Steve couldn’t remember who initiated their first kiss. But he did remember Buck walking them blindly towards the bed.  And the shower that followed with Steve’s knees on the tile. And the morning after with Buck riding him so goddamn slow but so good.

Under the shower’s spray, he gasps at the thought that all left of Bucky is a memory. His touch would be phantom, his voice only captured in his mind and voicemails. Everything else, scattered in the wind.

* * *

 

He dreams that night. Of Bucky’s mouth, his hands, and his chest. Of sitting in his lap, of sucking Buck’s breast, of kissing his mouth and face while Buck fucked him, of Buck holding him, of Buck closing his eyes and moaning for Steve.

He wakes up with Buck's side of the bed cold and empty, his boxers sticky with sweat and dried cum, and his lips untouched.  
  



End file.
